“Hell, Alexei,” I gasped. “What is that?”
He smirked at my torment, then took a sip from his cocktail. “A lot of tequila with some other odds and ends to give it an extra punch. You’re supposed to sip it, not gulp half of it down.”
“Noted,” I said, sitting back. My stomach warmed pleasantly, tempting me to reconsider my aversion to the drink.
Alexei set his spoon down, a smile lingering in his eyes—though it was more calculated than warm. “You didn’t answer my question. Why do you want to know about Ronen?”
I shot a glance at Oliver. His attention was wholly absorbed in his meal, leaving me to fend for myself.
“I need to impress him. To rank.”
Alexei lifted his brows, a flicker of understanding chasing away his suspicion. “And you think getting to know your general will somehow gain you favor and respect?”
“More or less.”
He nodded, panning between us. “It won’t work. For one, it took me ages to gain his trust and friendship, so you won’t pull any information from me. If you want to get to know him, talk to him yourself. Secondly, he’ll see right through you. Don’t you think everyone is trying to fight for his attention so they can rank and win their spoils?”
“But we’re at a disadvantage being in an elite squadron,” I said, gritting my teeth.
Alexei hummed in thought. “Some would say you’re at an advantage. You have less competition and more skills to gain from experienced warriors.”
I slammed my spoon into my stew, splattering the broth onto the table. “Don’t you see? That’s the problem. We aren’t experienced warriors! How are we expected to rank against them?”
Alexei glanced toward the tavern door. “Well, if you have complaints or want to try your hand at buttering up Ronen, here’s your chance.”
I twisted to see the general walking into the tavern. He scanned the room before settling on Moira’s table. His posture was rigid, every step deliberate and controlled as he joined her.
Moira wasted no time making her possessive claim. Her manicured hand slid around his back, creeping up to trace the muscles of his neck as she pressed her body against his stiffened form. He shrugged her off, shifting to the edge of the booth. She scooted closer, angling her body to rub her leg against his.
Itches scattered across my hands, and ice crackled in my ears. My gaze narrowed on the points where they connected, watching her fingers trail across his body, each touch seeming to make his jaw tick.Moira tugged on his head and puckered her desperate lips, demanding a kiss.
Was she not getting the hint?
The icy crackling surged with intensity. He muttered something to her, then wrenched himself free, making his way to the bar. I smiled at the pinched expression Moira tried to hide with a wave of her hand as she turned back to her friends, my Infernus settling.
My eyes trailed after the general, curious to see how he interacted with people out of uniform. He didn’t smile or laugh. He kept his distance, never staying long enough to engage in real conversation. The most he gave was a stiff nod, every inch of him locked up, like the simple act of socializing caused him physical pain.
“Why is he here?”
“We come here often when we want to unwind.”
Unwind?The general didn’t look like unwinding was even in his vocabulary. His tense shoulders, his clenched jaw—it was more like he was bracing for something rather than letting go.
As his eyes flickered briefly toward me, unease flashed in his gaze. The same look he always wore, whether escorting us to my father or silently observing our squad during training. It never changed. It wasn’t the social setting that made him uncomfortable.
It was me.
Alexei grabbed my hand, pulling my attention back to him. He turned it over, studying my palm and brushing gentle patterns along the sensitive skin. “I was kidding, by the way,” he said, looking up with a teasing smile. “There’s no way to butter him up, beautiful.”
Maybe. Maybe not.
Rune sat up, her attention on Alexei. A low growl rumbled in her throat. I gave her a confused look, then noticed Oliver pounding back his drink and avoiding our interaction.
I pulled my hand back, realizing Oliver was jealous—and knew what I had to do. I copied him, tipping the rest of my martini back. The burn hit me as hard as the first time, and I coughed, trying to maintain some semblance of composure.
Alexei studied me for a moment. “How often do you drink?”
I hesitated, unsure of how much I wanted to admit about my sheltered life. “Eggnog. Once a year. My mom was… a little overbearing.”
